Arvis Chalmers’ Albany: A fierce thirst for loyalty, power

The following column was published in The Knickerbocker News, June 1, 1983

Once upon a time there was this mayor.

In appearance and style, he was the lord of the manor of Albany and much of the surrounding countryside.

He had a fierce appetite for politics and his job that devoured as much as seven days a week. Those who knew his habits best would call at his City Hall office on Saturday mornings when the phone didn’t ring incessantly and there were fewer people waiting in the outer office.

Once an Albany resident went to the mayor to ask him for a part-time job.

“Part time’ ‘ “‘ the mayor said. “Why, young man, 9 to 5 is only part time – There are 24 hours in each day.”
An unlisted home phone to protect a little privacy? No, there it was in the book. Residence: 463-3783.

And, what little privacy he had was often taken up at every type of civic or community affair or dinner. It’s estimated he spent a quarter of his life at public gatherings.

But Erastus Corning 11 had another side. When he wasn’t available, it would be a good bet his office would be telling callers: “The ‘mayor went fishing (or hunting) for a few days.”

During duck hunting season, the sport didn’t interfere with his job. He’d be up at 4 a.m., headed for Four Mile Point just below Coxsackie on the Hudson, returning in time to start his regular City Hall day.

But, work and the use of power were combined with a zest for living. He enjoyed a party and the company of friends, entering into the spirit of the fun.

For years, he was the toastmaster for the Fifth Estate, a group of lobbyists, legislators and state officials whose coat of arms included a credit card and the Charles Torche motto, written in Latin, “Honesty is no substitute for experience.” –

Their annual dinners were usually held near the end of the legislative session and provided an opportunity for members to poke a little fun at themselves while “roasting” some public figure.

There was an assurance about the mayor. He enjoyed the camaraderie of the card table or billiard room at the exclusive Fort Orange Club, but could join in a barroom party at a convention or outing with equal ease.

Those who watched Corning in action say he was best when under fire, whether being questioned by the press or presiding at a Democratic state convention.

At a particularly unruly nominating convention in Syracuse one year, Corning was presiding. The session, interrupted by repeated roll call votes and demands for recounts, lasted all night.

As dawn broke, an irate delegate leaped to the stage, his arms waving and his fists clenched. As others restrained the delegate, Corning calmly gaveled the convention to an end, surveying the scene in a slightly bemused and detached way.

When Nelson Rockefeller became governor, it became known that Erastus Corning had been a frequent visitor to the Rockefeller estate in Maine, where his family, too, spent the summers.

“You knew the governor when he was growing up and you have a special access to him now. What is he really like?” Corning once was asked.

The mayor paused for a moment, then said: “I’ll tell you a little story about Nellie – that’s what his friends called him at Dartmouth. He drove around campus in a little beat-up car. His classmates couldn’t understand it. Finally they asked him, and a surprised Rockefeller replied:

“‘What do you think my name is Vanderbilt?’ ”

In addition to politics, Corning had a lifelong love affair with words, particularly the use of words and the different meanings they could convey.

This sometimes caused problems with the press, which often would attempt to interpret a Corning statement only to be chided it had missed not only the meaning, but the whole point.

Once a new reporter, covering City Hall on his second day on the job, jauntily started his question with “Erastus …” He was politely told some people called him Mr. Corning, many simply Mr. Mayor, but only a few friends called him Erastus.

If there was one word in the Corning vocabulary that expressed his political philosophy. it was “loyalty.”

He was unswerving in his loyalty to Daniel P. O’Connell, longtime Albany Democratic Party boss. He would give his opinion or make a suggestion, but once O’Connell said “This is the way I want it,” Corning carried it through.

In fact, that’s how he came to run for lieutenant governor in 1946. It seems O’Connell had a candidate he wanted on the party’s state ticket that year. He talked to the party leaders, who were putting the ticket together behind the scenes, suggesting his choice.

“OK,” was the word from the smoke-filled room, “but you gotta give us Corning.”

Corning didn’t want to run, but O’Connell said, in effect, “That’s the way I want it,” and Corning ran.

The state Democratic ticket lost to one headed by Tom Dewey. But Corning polled a bigger majority statewide than the party’s candidate for governor, James Mead.

After O’Connell died, Corning demanded the same kind of loyalty he had given.

In the O’Connell-Corning tradition, a strong party organization meant one man in control.

That meant power, the first ingredient in running a government.

Arvis Chalmers was a political reporter and columnist for the Knickerbocker News for 40 years, retiring in 1986. He died in 1986.